The village chief lifted his head with a hint of weary disinterest and cast a sidelong glance at the young fool before him. The man gave a derisive snort and said, "Tell you? Child, I suggest you go to bed quietly. I had hoped our visitor might be a formidable warrior—at the very least, a senior student from the Academy of Divine Grace's Lithomancy Division. Never did I imagine it would be...! Ugh… my head… it hurts. Don't talk to me…"
With that, the chief clutched his head, his demeanor making it clear he wished to speak no further.
"Heh, looks like the old man really is drowning in despair. So, kid, what's your plan now?"Darkbane's voice chuckled dryly in his mind.
"If you ask me, now's not the time to rush into the task. August first is still far off. The Flame Dragon's Tongue won't grow legs and flee. You've been traveling all day—don't tell me you're planning to squeeze out information on that magical beast tonight, slay it before dawn, and then hop on the midnight carriage back home?"
For once, the fool actually considered Darkbane's suggestion. He raised his head, feeling the soft strands of hair brushing against the back of his neck, the gentle weight of a small presence resting against his shoulder, unmoving. At last, he closed his icy eyes and sighed softly…
Perhaps he truly had been too hasty in this matter. Because she could no longer speak…
The constant thread of anxious urgency finally quieted within him. The fool was not one to act rashly by nature. Once his thoughts found order, he became again that sewer rat who moved through shadows with cold precision. Yes—after a long journey, he was tired. And if he was tired, he should rest…
At last, the fool did not turn down Delia's offer. Carrying the little one on his back, he followed the woman upstairs to a guest room. Despite her repeated apologies for its poor quality, saying it was the worst room in the house, it was leagues better than his own wooden shack.
"Please, rest well," she said gently.
With that, the door closed behind her, and her footsteps faded down the hallway. The fool pressed his ear to the door to ensure she wasn't lingering. Once convinced she had truly left, he set his satchel down, lifted the sleeping girl from his back, and placed her gently onto the bed. He drew the blanket over her.
Night had fallen, and the mountain air grew colder with each passing hour. Through the window, beneath the glittering expanse of stars, the dark silhouettes of the mountain range stretched endlessly. Shadows clung to the ridges like ink, binding the peaks to the heavens above. Though the stars shone brightly, their light could not pierce the pitch between the summits.
Little Bun remained fast asleep. The moment she touched the soft bedding, her limbs stretched out as she kicked twice and slipped back into slumber. Watching her carefree, sleep-filled expression, the fool shook his head, turned off the lamp, and lay down beside her without undressing, wrapping his arms around the child and closing his eyes.
"Hehehe, didn't expect you to relax so easily once you let your guard down! What's this? Your ever-present wariness has faded?""…""Hehehe… hahahahaha! Delightful, truly delightful! Sometimes I find your silence more intriguing than your words. What are you thinking, I wonder? Well then—there's still time before the festival on August first. Let's see just how far you can go in that time…"
…
The next day.
After the exhausting journey the day before, Little Bun was still sleeping soundly well past six. This was unusual for the fool, who strictly adhered to his daily routine. But as he touched the chain around his right arm, he remembered—this was no longer Windblown Sands City. There were no more daily street-sweeping duties.
So then—what to do today?
Seated at the edge of the bed with the task profile in hand, he casually covered the girl with a blanket and began flipping through the document again. Though the village chief had asked him to leave today, that simply wasn't possible. Without completing the mission—without bringing back the heart of that magical beast—how could he earn the reward he needed to buy the Flame Dragon's Tongue to cure Bun?
He had read the document countless times, yet no matter how many more, no new clues revealed themselves. Lifting his head, he could see from the sunlight streaming through the window that it was past seven. He closed the file, tied Bun securely to his back once more, and stepped out the door.
"You're up already, child?"
To his surprise, both the village chief and his wife, Delia, were already downstairs in the hall. The chief looked as exhausted as ever, slumped on the sofa, while Delia busied herself in the kitchen by the side. Soon, the fragrance of breakfast filled the room.
"Dear, is the child up?"In the middle of her bustling, Delia peeked out from the kitchen. Seeing the fool, she smiled warmly."Little one, just wait a moment—breakfast is almost ready. Dear, could you set the cutlery? And perhaps call the children too?"
The village chief shook his head without a word, but still stood and went upstairs.
Moments later, Delia emerged with a platter of fried meat patties and placed it on the dining table in the corner. She pulled out a chair and gestured for him to sit. But the fool remained silent, unmoving, his figure rooted to the floor like iron.
"Go on, sit down, child. Breakfast will be ready soon."
Her voice was gentle and warm, full of kindness. But the fool's cold, emotionless eyes never left her. After a pause, he suddenly turned and strode upstairs, returning to his room. He grabbed his satchel, pulled out a small piece of compressed biscuit, and washed it down with a few sips from his canteen.
The dry, flavorless biscuit dissolved into a paste in his mouth, gritty and bitter with wheat and dust. It was as though he were not in a village at all—but back in the desert, where one did not waste food, and where hunger or thirst could mean death.
Having finished, he returned downstairs—only to find the table now surrounded by the village chief and his three children. At the sound of his steps, the children turned to look at him.
"Hmm? You're back? Come, child, have a seat. We don't have much to offer in this countryside, but please, help yourself."
The chief pointed to the seat across from him. Then, smiling broadly, he addressed his sons and daughter:"Children, come meet the warrior from Windblown Sands City. Don't let his age fool you—he may only be a few years older than you, but he's bold enough to take on the task of slaying the Harvest God, Vemen!"
Though the chief wore a bitter smile, his children failed to notice the sorrow behind it. Especially the eight-year-old girl—at the sight of the ragged young man before her, chained at the wrists and ankles, carrying a girl even smaller than her little brother—she leapt up in excitement.
"Big brother! Are you really that strong?! Can you truly defeat the Harvest God Vemen?!"
"Marleen! What nonsense are you spouting?!"The mother's scolding voice came sharply from the kitchen. Delia emerged carrying a tray of sliced bread, her face stern."The Harvest God Vemen is our guardian deity! Speaking of slaying him—do you want to bring a curse upon us all?!"
Chastised, Marleen shrank back into her seat, her eyes cast down—but she continued to sneak glances at the boy, her gaze lingering on his chains.
The fool's eyes swept over the breakfast-laden table, then slowly turned to examine the hall.
The village chief's house was small, modestly furnished. A tea table stood at the center of the room, surrounded by sofas. Opposite the main door was a fireplace, atop which sat old photos and trinkets. He walked over and gazed at a square vase.
…
After a moment of silent thought, he lifted the vase. Beneath it was a faint square impression. He set it down, then picked up a nearby photo frame—another mark. The glass was well polished, the photo a portrait of the village chief and his family. He studied it briefly, then moved on to a model of a magi-train.
One by one, he carefully inspected each item. Just then, Delia, having finished scolding her daughter, called out again, inviting him to eat.
But instead, the boy turned without a word and walked toward the door.
"Eh? Child, are you leaving already? At least stay for breakfast,"the village chief said, rising from his seat.
The boy's steps did not falter. In the same flat, emotionless tone, he replied,"I've already eaten. I'm going for a walk around the village."
"You've eaten?"
The chief and Delia exchanged a startled look. The chief spoke first:"When did you eat? Did I treat you poorly, make you feel unwelcome in our home?"
Standing before the door, the boy paused. Then, as if casting off the weight of their expectations, he said coldly:
"I'm not here for hospitality—I'm here to complete a task. If you won't speak, someone else will."